Flush

SIXTEEN

I don't remember hitting the water, but I do remember sinking.

Not very deep, but deep enough to remind me that I was wearing Abbey's backpack.

I could have ditched it, but that would have been the same as littering. Besides, MS. ABBEY UNDERWOOD was written with a bright red marker in two different places on the backpack. If somebody found it and saw all those empty food-coloring bottles, we were busted for sure.

Hurriedly I loosened one strap of the backpack to free my right shoulder, which made it easier to swim. I wasn't breaking any Olympic records, but I was definitely putting some distance between myself and the Coral Queen. At any moment I expected the blue dinghy to come chugging into view, Abbey riding to the rescue.

Behind me, where the casino boat was moored, a shouting match had erupted. I turned my head and spotted Luno stomping back and forth under the dock lights, hollering furiously at the two bouncers on the top deck. The bouncers were yelling back, pointing across the basin.

Pointing at me, of course.

I kicked harder, thinking: Hurry up, Abbey. Hurry.

“Stop, boy!” Luno commanded. “You stop now!”

He was running along the docks, trying to keep even with me, so I dove beneath the surface. The dirty water stung my eyes and I squeezed them shut. It didn't matter, because even with my eyes wide open I couldn't have seen a whale three inches in front of my nose-not in that murky basin in the dead of night. I was swimming blind, but at least I was swimming.

When I came up for air, a white blast of light caught me squarely in the face.

“There he is!” Luno cried out. He was standing on a fish-cleaning table, sweeping a portable spotlight across the basin.

I ducked like a turtle and swam farther. When I popped up again, the same thing happened-the bright light, Luno yelling at me to stop. This time, though, he sounded closer.

Where was my sister?

The channel was at least a hundred yards away. Luno would run out of dock before I'd run out of water, but I was getting exhausted. My clothes were slowing me down, and the waterlogged backpack felt heavier by the minute.

Still no sign of the dinghy.

Even if my “Geronimo!” wasn't loud enough, Abbey surely must have heard Dusty Muleman's goons bellowing like bull elephants. I took a gulp of air and dove under again. Two kicks later I struck what seemed to be a wall of blubber.

A wall that moved.

Next thing I remember was me spinning like a top-then shooting upward, launched by some invisible brute force. Flying out of the water, I opened my eyes just in time to see an enormous brown shape, mossy and slick, pushing away at an incredible speed. A broad rounded tail slapped the surface so hard, it sounded like a rifle.

Right away I knew what had happened: I'd crashed into a sleeping manatee.

I splashed down in a tumble. For a solid minute I treaded water, not going anywhere, until my heart quit racing and I was able to catch my breath. The marina was momentarily quiet except for the merry chime of steel drums from the Coral Queen's calypso band.

Where in the world was Abbey? And where was that caveman Luno?

I began swimming again, although not as bravely as before. The collision with the sea cow had rattled me-I couldn't help wondering what other creatures might be cruising around the dark cloudy basin. As huge as manatees are, they feed strictly on vegetation and have no appetite for humans. That's not true for everything that swims at night, especially certain large and fearless sharks.

The water was as warm as soup, but an icy shiver ran down my neck as I kicked onward. I only know a few prayers by heart, but I said all of them to myself. Twice. That's how scared I was.

I can't say for certain whether God was listening, but it wasn't long afterward that I heard the wheezy chug-a-chug-chug of a small outboard motor. I stopped moving and fixed my eyes in the direction of the noise. A familiar shape took form along the edge of the shadows, near the mouth of the basin.

As the shape drew closer, into the pale wash of the dock lights, I recognized the blue dinghy and the spindly silhouette of my sister at the helm.

Excitedly I called Abbey's name, and she responded with our pre-arranged signal: three rapid blinks of her flashlight. I set out for the little boat as fast as I could, not caring how much noise I made. All I wanted was to get out of the water in one piece.

Abbey whistled, but I was too exhausted to whistle back. The dinghy was no longer heading my way; in fact, it seemed to be sliding away in the current. By the time I caught up, my arms and legs were starting to cramp. I grabbed on to the bow and, with my sister's help, hauled myself aboard.

At first I couldn't even talk-I just sat there, dripping and panting like a tired old dog. Finally, I shook off the backpack and dried my face with the tail of Abbey's shirt.

“You okay?” she asked.

I nodded and rubbed my aching muscles. “How come you turned off the engine?”

“I didn't,” Abbey said. “It stalled out.”

“Nice.”

“That's how come I was late getting here. It took like forever to get the stupid thing started!”

I stepped to the stern to confront the creaky old Evinrude. The starter cord was a three-foot length of rope that wrapped tightly around the engine's flywheel. A small block of plastic served as a handle on the exposed end of the rope, so you could pull it without shredding your fingers.

Hand-cranking an outboard is harder than starting a lawn mower. Marine engines have more horsepower, so it takes more strength to turn the flywheel. After bracing my heels against the transom of the dinghy, I locked both hands around the grip of the starter cord.

“Do it,” said my sister.

“Keep your fingers crossed.”

I reared back and yanked. The engine shuddered, coughed once, then went silent.

“Crap,” mumbled Abbey.

“Don't worry,” I said, which was ridiculous. Only an idiot wouldn't have been worried.

I shifted my weight slightly and took hold of the rope again.

“Let it happen, cap'n,” said Abbey.

At that instant the dinghy lit up like a movie stage-Luno had found us with his spotlight. Abbey and I shielded our eyes and tried to see where he was. His voice gave us the answer: He was close.

Too close.

“You again!” we heard him snarl. “You two punks! This time you no get away!”

He was standing at the end of the last dock in the marina. Off our port side was the mouth of the basin and, beyond that, open sea. If I could only get Rado's darn engine started, Abbey and I could escape.

Again I tried the starter cord, and again nothing happened but a sad sputter.

“We're drifting toward the dock,” my sister said gloomily.

“I can see that.”

“Should we jump?”

“No, not yet.”

Four, five, six times I pulled the rope with the same depressing result. Meanwhile a breeze was pushing the dinghy steadily toward the dock, where Luno was pacing like a hungry cat. For amusement he would occasionally zap us with the hot beam of his spotlight.

Abbey crouched low in the bow, but I had to keep standing. It was the only way to put enough force into pulling the starter cord.

As we floated closer to the lights, we could make out Luno's gloating expression. His smile was thin and ugly.

Frantically I jerked on the starter cord, and this time the old engine gave an encouraging kick before sputtering out.

Luno crowed, “I get you punks now!”

My sister poked me in the back. “Noah, look! Quick!”

Another figure had joined the bald goon at the end of the dock. I recognized him immediately in that flowered Hawaiian shirt, but just the stink from his cigar would have given him away. It was Dusty Muleman himself.

“I'm outta here,” said Abbey, poised to jump.

“No, wait.” I feverishly resumed hauling on the starter cord, one hard pull after another. Nothing makes you forget how tired you are like pure cold fear. I was working like a robot in high gear.

Then my sister cried, “Noah, duck!”

And ducking would have been a smart move, no doubt about it. Because I turned to see Luno with his meaty right arm extended, aiming a stubby-looking gun at the dinghy. Dusty stood off to the side, blowing lazy rings of blue smoke.

The scene was so unreal, I just froze. It was like watching someone else's nightmare. I felt blank and numb and far away.

“What's the matter with you? Get down!” Abbey yelled.

By now we'd drifted to within fifty feet of the dock, which made us an easy target. Finally an alarm bell went off in my brain and I threw up both arms, shouting, “Don't shoot! We give up!”

Dusty chuckled quietly. Luno was leering like a psycho. He did not lower the gun barrel even one millimeter.

“You kids make bad mistake,” he said. “Now must pay.”

If ever I was going to wet my pants in public, it would have been right then and there.

Yet all I could think about was protecting my sister, so I threw myself on top of her. The landing wasn't so graceful-I banged my chin on the gunwale and nearly capsized us. Wrapping my arms around Abbey, I waited for the explosion of a gunshot.

It never came. A fierce and breathless struggle had broken out on the dock. Peeking over the side of the dinghy, Abbey and I witnessed an amazing sight.

As if dropped from the stars, a third man had materialized under the dock lights-and he was pounding Luno into a sweaty lump of Jell-O. The only sign of Dusty Muleman was the slapping of his designer flip-flops against the ground as he scurried off in terror toward the Coral Queen.

The cheerful tinkle of steel drums now mixed with Luno's odd piggish grunts, the wiry stranger swinging a deck mop with painful accuracy.

In fact, he wasn't a total stranger to me and my sister. We were near enough to see the M-shaped scar on his weathered tan face, and the bright gold coin swinging from the chain around his neck.

“The pirate guy!” Abbey whispered gleefully. “Outrageous!”

“Don't you move,” I told her, and clambered to the stern. I seized the handle of the starter rope and, from a squatting position, yanked with every ounce of muscle I had left.

By some small miracle, the rickety old engine purred to life.

I whipped the dinghy around, aimed it toward the channel, and twisted the throttle wide open. I glanced back just as the mysterious pirate was hurling Luno's stubby gun into the basin. For an old geezer, he had a pretty good arm.

After reaching the open water, I slowed to half speed. Running a boat at night is tricky because you can't see very far or very clearly, and a cheapo flashlight doesn't help much. All kinds of hazardous clutter could be floating in your path-boards, driftwood, coconuts, ropes-and it wouldn't have taken much to wreck the propeller blades on the old Evinrude.

Abbey perched on the bow, watching out for obstacles, while I tried to navigate by the lights of the shoreline: motels, mansions, RV parks, tiki bars. The darkest stretch was Thunder Beach, peaceful and deserted under a yellow moon. An ideal night for a momma turtle to crawl up and lay her eggs, I thought.

The salt air felt good on our faces as we ran against a light chop. Above us hung a glittering spray of stars that stretched all the way to Cuba. I was happier than I'd ever been, and so was Abbey.

“We did it!” she cheered. “We are so hot!”

“Adios, Captain Muleman!” I shouted with a phony salute.

The hardest part of Operation Royal Flush was over. We'd laid the trap and escaped, though barely. Being chased by Luno wasn't part of the plan, but it didn't spoil anything. For now, Dusty Muleman and his gorillas wouldn't be able to figure out what I'd been doing aboard the Coral Queen, since the only clue had gone down the toilets.

Way, way down the toilets, into the holding tank-the last place they'd ever stick their heads.

Only later would Dusty realize what I'd done, and by then he'd have worse problems-namely the U.S. Coast Guard, which I intended to call first thing in the morning.

But as jazzed as I was, I couldn't forget how close Abbey and I had come to being shot. Shot. It was unbelievable.

Why, I wondered, would Dusty stand there and let Luno take aim at a couple of pint-sized trespassers? We must have really annoyed him, I thought, with all our snooping around.

And what were the odds of being rescued for a second time by the same stranger? Either the old pirate was following us around like some sort of weird guardian angel, or Abbey and I were the luckiest two kids in Florida.

“Hard right!” she called from the bow.

I pushed the tiller, and we skittered past a glistening spear of two-by-four, only inches away. It would have punched a hole in the hull for sure.

“Good eyes,” I called to my sister.

“Thanks. What's that noise?”

“Don't know.”

“Noah, why are you slowing us down?” she shouted.

“I'm not,” I said. “Not on purpose, anyway.”

But the little boat was definitely losing speed. The loud noise that Abbey and I had heard was the outboard engine throwing a piston rod, though we didn't know that at the time.

The motor conked out with a sickly rattle.

I knew we were in major trouble, but I went through the motions of removing the cowling and fiddling with the spark-plug connections. It didn't fool Abbey for a second.

“I don't suppose you brought Dad's toolbox,” she said.

“Very funny.”

I tried to pull the starter cord, but it wouldn't budge. The old Evinrude was stone dead.

A heavy, tired silence fell over us. Once again the little boat was at the mercy of the breeze, which was taking us out to sea, toward the Straits of Florida. Obviously our good luck had run out.

“We're history,” my sister said. “Mom and Dad'll go postal when they get home and we're not there.”

The wind was clocking around to the northwest. In summer that usually means bad weather is on the way.

I said, “Better toss the anchor-no, wait a second…”

Too late. My stomach clenched when I heard the splash.

“Let me guess,” Abbey said. “The rope wasn't tied on, was it?”

“My fault. I should've checked.”

“So I just threw our anchor away. How nice.” She sighed in discouragement. “Now what?”

We saw a distant flash of electric blue, which was followed by a slow deep rumble.

“Seven miles. Not good,” Abbey said.

Dad had taught us how to count the seconds between the lightning bolt and thunder-one thousand, two thousand, three thousand-to figure out how many miles away a storm was. Like Abbey, I'd counted seven.

“Maybe it'll miss us,” she said.

“Yeah.” And maybe someday monkeys will fly helicopters, I thought.

In a few short minutes our mood had plunged from the highest high to the lowest low. The moon slipped behind a rolling gray carpet of clouds, and the freshening gusts smelled wet. Abbey scrunched low in the bow while I hunkered between the seats.

The lightning got brighter and the thunder got louder, but all we could do was brace for it. Rado's dinghy had no oars, and we were already too far from shore to swim-not that either of us was eager to jump in. I remembered Dad saying that you always stay with a boat as long as it's still floating, because a boat is easier than a body for searchers to find.

Soon the wind began to hum, slapping us with sheets of cool rain.

“You all right?” I asked my sister.

“Snug as a bug,” she said.

The little boat slopped across the crests of the waves, moving farther and farther from shore. Stabs of lightning turned the dark into daylight, and I'd catch brief glimpses of Abbey, covering her face with the backpack. I felt horrible for getting us into such a mess, and I was furious at myself for letting her come along. It was one of the all-time dumbest things I'd ever done.

The wind-whipped raindrops stung our skin, and every thunderclap sounded like a bomb. As hard as I tried, I couldn't stop my knees from knocking against the hull. I didn't want Abbey to know how frightened I was, or how much danger we were in. If a lightning bolt struck the dinghy, we'd be roasted like crickets on a radiator.

I wiped off my wristwatch and checked the time: twenty minutes to one. Mom and Dad were home by now, probably going nuts trying to find us. I felt like throwing up.

“Hey, Noah?” Abbey said.

“What?”

“My butt's underwater.”

“Mine, too,” I said glumly.

“Shouldn't we, like, do something?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

We spent the next two hours bailing the boat, which is a major pain when all you've got are empty food-dye bottles that hold one measly ounce of liquid. Lucky for us, the storm blew through swiftly, the rain quit, and the dinghy didn't sink.

No sooner had the stars come out again than I heard Abbey snoring. I wasn't sure how far offshore we'd drifted, but I could still see the faint string of lights that marked the coastline. I stretched out on one of the seat planks, staring up at the moon and wondering how long it would take for somebody to spot us. I was determined to remain awake, in case a boat passed close by; then I could signal for help with the flashlight.

But my eyes didn't stay open very long. The next thing I remember was the sun warming my cheeks, a seagull squawking overhead-and something moist splatting in my hair.

One lousy little juice box.

“That's all we've got?” I said to Abbey. “What happened to the Gatorade?”

“I drank it,” she said. “I would've brought a whole cooler if I'd known we were getting lost at sea. Want some juice or not?”

She was still red in the face from laughing after the seagull crapped on my head-I thought she was going to have a total coronary. Then I almost fell overboard while dunking my hair in the water, trying to wash the poop out. Abbey thought that was really amusing, too.

And I guess it was. At least it kept our minds off the situation, which was getting more depressing by the minute.

I was happy to share the juice box, even though I usually can't stand fruit punch. When you're thirsty enough, you'll drink just about anything. It was only eight in the morning, and we were already damp with sweat. That's your basic July in the Florida Keys. By noon, I knew, we'd be in rough shape.

I was ticked at myself for not saving some of the rainwater we'd bailed from the boat. “Remind me not to try out for Survivor,” I grumbled to Abbey.

She arranged the backpack on her head like a fat bumpy hat. “I used to think Dad was the psycho in the family, but look at us!” she said. “No water, no shade, no food, not even a fishing rod so we can catch something to eat.”

A small airplane passed overhead-the third one of the morning-and we both stood up to wave. The plane circled once and then flew off, dashing our hopes again. From that altitude the dinghy must have looked like a blue dot on blue paper.

“Noah, when am I allowed to get scared?” Abbey tried to make it sound like she was kidding, but I could tell she was partly serious.

“At least we can still see the shore,” I said.

“So how deep's the water here?”

As we'd floated east, past the reef line, the color had changed from turquoise to indigo. I didn't know the exact depth, but I guessed low on purpose.

“Fifty, maybe sixty feet. Not real deep.”

“Not for a tuna maybe,” said my sister, “but way too deep for me.”

“Were you planning on taking a swim?”

“Yeah, me and the hammerheads.” She scanned the horizon and frowned. “You said there'd be charter boats all over the place. You promised somebody would find us by nine o'clock.”

“Yeah, and there's still an hour left on my prediction.” I was trying not to sound as bummed as I was.

Miles away, we could see the blocky shape of a freighter steaming south, and a few deep-sea boats trolling back and forth. None of them were heading our way.

Not even close.

I tried to pull-start Rado's engine again, but it was no use. When I closed my eyes to take a break from the sun, I realized I was already thirsty again. My father says the summer heat in Florida is like the devil's oven, and that's about right.

Something started whining like a rusty hinge, and I looked up to spy another seagull circling the dinghy.

“Betcha five bucks he takes a dump on me, too,” I said.

Abbey managed a giggle. “I'm safe under the backpack.”

It was amazing how calm and good-natured she was, considering the trouble we were in. Lots of people I know, grown-ups included, would've freaked out.

“I just thought of something,” she said. “If we're stuck here on the boat, who's gonna call the Coast Guard on Dusty Muleman?”

“Good question.”

“Know what? This really bites.”

“Yeah, it does. I'm sorry, Abbey.”

“What for? We tried to stop something bad, and it didn't work. Doesn't mean we were wrong to try-Noah, are you listening to me?”

I wasn't.

“What are you staring at?” Abbey demanded.

“A boat,” I said, “unless I'm so whacked out that I'm imagining things. I swear it's coming this way.”

My sister shot to her feet.

“You see it, too?” I asked anxiously. “Or is it a mirage?”

“Nope, it's the real deal.”

“Outstanding!”

We started waving and hollering like a couple of dweebs. This time, though, it actually worked. Pushing a frothy wake, the boat headed straight at us.

It wasn't a big one, maybe a twenty-four-footer, but it might as well have been the Queen Elizabeth. Abbey and I had never seen a more glorious sight.

Two figures, both of them hatless and wearing wraparound sunglasses, stood at the console under the T-top. As the boat drew closer, it slowed down and banked slightly, revealing large orange lettering on the side.

TROPICAL RESCUE, it said.

“Noah, is that who I think it is?” Abbey asked weakly.

“The one and only.”

“You want me to start sobbing and shaking?”

“Not yet,” I told her. “First let's see how pissed off he is.”

“Is that Mom with him? Please tell me it's not Mom.”

“No, Abbey. Mom usually wears a shirt.”

We quit waving and cupped our hands to our eyes, trying to see the bare-chested person through the glare.

With relief Abbey said, “Oh good, it's a man.”

“Yeah, but guess who.”

“Who?”

“Check out the scar, Abbey.”

She gasped. “This is so insane.”

The man riding with my father was the old pirate.

We were speechless as the towboat idled up to the dinghy. Dad tossed a rope, which I hitched to the bow cleat.

“Hey, guys,” my father said. “Long night?”

We nodded lamely. The stranger stood next to Dad, smiling and fingering the gold coin on his neck. He seemed to be studying us closely.

Dad helped me and Abbey aboard the towboat. Then he pulled us close and squeezed like he might never let go.

“Are you two okay?” He examined us from head to toe, and seemed pleased to find no bullet holes, shark bites, or missing limbs.

“We're good,” I told him. “Just a little thirsty, that's all.”

The old pirate guy handed each of us a cold bottle of water.

“Who are you?” Abbey asked him without even saying thanks. “I'm sorry, but it's driving me crazy.”

The stranger took off his sunglasses and glanced over at Dad. It wasn't exactly a sad look, but there was something heavy about it.

“Kids,” said my father, “say hello to your Grandpa Bobby.”